In the funeral parlor that morning I had been alienated from myself in cold and darkness; now I was thrown into myself in a loveliness of light.
When Alan got up into the white and gold pulpit to preach, his voice was hoarse—it was the beginning of an abcess on his tonsils—but his words were clear and part of the light; and the meaning of the Word made flesh was itself the light.
As we got back to the seminary we sat down to relax and have a drink together, and Hugh said that when he had been putting the children to bed Léna had turned to him and said, “You know, Gum, sometimes I forget to tell you how much I love you, but I do.”
And that, too, was Christmas.
This is the irrational season
When love blooms bright and wild.
Had Mary been filled with reason
There’d have been no room for the child.
3 … Rachel Weeping
The days between Christmas and Epiphany slide by too quickly. We eat turkey sandwiches and cold stuffing—almost the best part of the turkey. The living room is full of the fragrance of the tree.
Every day is a festival. The twenty-sixth is St. Stephen’s Day (I find it impossible to think of Stephen as someone who wasn’t quite bright enough to go on beyond the diaconate and make it to the priesthood). The twenty-seventh is the feast of St. John, John who speaks most closely to my understanding, who helps put the mind in the heart to bring wholeness.
And on the twenty-eighth of December, Holy Innocents’ Day. Holy Innocents’ Day is a stumbling block for me. This is a festival? this remembering the slaughter of all those babies under two years of age whose only wrong was to have been born at a time when three Wise Men came out of the East to worship a great King; and Herod, in panic lest his earthly power be taken away from him by this unknown infant potentate, ordered the execution of all the children who might grow up to dethrone him.
Jesus grew up to heal and preach at the expense of all those little ones, and I have sometimes wondered if his loving gentleness with small children may not have had something to do with this incredible price. And it causes me to ask painful questions about the love of God.
St. Catherine of Siena said, “Nails were not enough to hold God-and-man nailed and fastened on the cross, had not love kept him there.”
What kind of love was that? More like folly. All the disciples except John had abandoned him. His mother was there and a few women as usual, and a gaping mob, also as usual, and some jeering soldiers. That’s all. The cross represented the failure of his earthly mission. God came to the world and the world didn’t want him and threw him out by crucifying him like a common criminal. God—God the Father—loved the world he had created so much that he sent his only son—that spoken Word who called forth something from nothing, galaxies from chaos—he sent him to dwell in human flesh, to accept all earthly limitations, to confine himself in mortal time; and when this beloved son begged in agony that he might be spared the cross, what did the Father do? No thunderbolts, no lightning flash. Silence was the answer to the prayer. NO was the answer. And Jesus of Nazareth died in agony on the cross; the love of God echoing back into the silence of God.
That is love? How can we understand it? Do we even want it?
I sometimes get very angry at God, and I do not feel guilty about it, because the anger is an affirmation of faith. You cannot get angry at someone who is not there. So the raging is for me a necessary step toward accepting that God’s way of loving is more real than man’s, that this irrational, seemingly unsuccessful love is what it’s all about, is what created the galaxies, is what keeps the stars in their courses, is what gives all life value and meaning.
But what kind of meaning? It’s not a meaning that makes any sense in a world geared to success and self-fulfillment.
Remember the children in the school bus hit by a train? Remember the Vietnamese orphans dying in a flaming plane? What about all the holy innocents throughout time? It was this extraordinary God of love who personally killed all the first-born of the Egyptians in order to belabor a point which surely should have been obvious long before.
First God changed the waters of the Egyptians’ river into blood; then he sent a plague of frogs which weakened Pharaoh’s nerve considerably so that he almost let Moses and the Israelites go; then God sent mosquitoes against the Egyptians, and then gadflies, and then he killed all the Egyptians’ livestock, but spared the beasts of the children of Israel. Then God sent boils to torment the Egyptians, and Pharaoh said, “Go ahead, leave in safety,” and God, mind you, God, hardened Pharaoh’s heart so that he changed his mind and would not let the people go.
The boils were followed by hail, and Pharaoh begged Moses to stop the thunder and hail and he would let them go, and God stopped the storm and then he hardened Pharaoh’s heart again. And this kept right on. Next God sent locusts, and next he blotted out the light of the sun and sent darkness over the Egyptians, and whenever Pharaoh was ready to let the children of Israel go, God hardened his heart again, so that God could send one more horrible plague, and the worst of these was the death of the first-born children of the Egyptians, and these children were no more sinful or guilty than the children in the school bus or in the huge plane or the children under two years of age slaughtered by Herod.
Only a story? But there is no better way to search for the truth of history than to look in poetry and story.
This story really bothers me. I struggle with it.
Sometimes in this groping dark of knowing my not-knowing
I am exhausted with the struggle to believe in you, O God.
Your ways are not our ways. You sent evil angels to the Egyptians
and killed countless babies in order that Pharaoh—
whose heart was hardened by you (that worries me, Lord)
might be slow to let the Hebrew children go.
You turned back the waters of the Red Sea
and your Chosen People went through on dry land
and the Egyptians were drowned, men with wives and children,
young men with mothers and fathers (your ways are not our ways),
and there was much rejoicing, and the angels laughed and sang
and you stopped them, saying, “How can you laugh
when my children are drowning?”
When your people reached Mount Sinai you warned Moses
not to let any of them near you lest you break forth and kill them.
You are love—if you are God—and you command us to love,
and yet you yourself turn men to evil, and you wipe out nations
with one sweep of the hand—the Amorites and the Hittites and the
Perizzites—
gone, gone, all gone. Sometimes it seems that any means will do.
And yet—all these things are but stories told about you by fallen man,
and they are part of the story—for your ways are not our ways—
but they are not the whole story. You are our author,
and we try to listen and set down what you say, but we all suffer
from faulty hearing and we get the words wrong.
One small enormous thing: you came to us as one of us
and lived with us and died for us and descended into hell for us
and burst out into life for us—:
and now do you hold Pharaoh in your arms?
The love of God reveals itself in extraordinary ways. What kind of love kept him nailed to the cross? What kind of a Father did Jesus of Nazareth have?
Are we too intellectual and too reasonable to understand? Jesus said, “I bless you, Father, Lord of Heaven and earth, for hiding these things from the learned and the clever and revealing them to mere children.”
We’re a learned and clever generation, we of the late twentieth century. Those of us with the heritage of the Anglican Communion are a learned and clever group of people. Did those first-born of the Egyptians, those Holy Innocents in Bethlehem, those Vietnamese orphans in the flaming pla
ne know something that God is deliberately hiding from us? Why would a God of love do such things, permit such things? What does all this teach us about how we are to love one another?
For some time my husband played the father in The Diary of Anne Frank, the father who was the only one of the group of people hiding from the Nazis in an attic in Amsterdam who survived concentration camp. One evening while they were still in hiding, they heard a terrible crash downstairs, and they thought the Nazis had found them, and they held their breaths in terror. Nothing. Silence.
So the father goes downstairs to investigate, and they all know that he may never come back. While they are in an agony of waiting, the mother drops to her knees and says the 121st Psalm: I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.… She says it all, all those comforting words: The Lord shall preserve thy going out, and thy coming in, from this time forth and even forevermore. But the Lord didn’t preserve them. He let the Nazis find them and send them to concentration camp and they all died there except the father, a whole group of innocent people guilty of nothing except being chosen of God. The mother who had cried for help died. Anne, the innocent child, died. God, the God they trusted, let it happen. In human terms it would seem evident that the love and faith of the mother who cried out for help was far greater than the love of God.
Do I want this kind of God? Until I saw my husband in The Diary of Anne Frank—and I saw it several times—the 121st Psalm used to be strong and comforting to me. Now I say it daily with a kind of terror. Hugh’s performance in that play brought about a crisis in my understanding of the love of God, and the saying of the Psalm is a cry in the dark that I still affirm that God’s love is more real than mine.
For men make the cozy and comfy promises; not God.
Yes, but how can a God of love stand by and let Anne Frank die, and all the holy innocents in the children’s leukemia wards and in rat-infested tenements? Why doesn’t he stop the slaughter? If he’s God, he can do anything. What kind of love is this?
Okay, Madeleine, but if God interferes every time we do wrong, where’s our free will?
But Anne Frank didn’t do wrong.
But the Nazis did. When they built concentration camps that was a very big wrong and a lot of innocent people suffered. But it was man who did the wrong, not God.
But he could have stopped it.
And if he did? Do I want to adore a God who allows me no free will, and therefore no potential for either evil or good? Do I want a cosmic dictator, ruling a closed, finished cosmos?
Sometimes when I think of our battlefields and slums and insane asylums, I’m not sure, and I ask: why does God treat in such a peculiar way the creatures he loves so much that he sent his own Son to them?
And what about that son whose love kept him on the cross?
Deep in our hearts most of us really wish that Jesus hadn’t resisted the temptations; if he had only been a reasonable son of man and turned those stones into bread, then all the poor of the earth could be fed and we wouldn’t have inner cities or ghettos in this country, or children with bloated bellies dying of starvation in India or Cambodia or Venezuela. If he had only come down from the cross in a blaze of power, then we wouldn’t have any trouble understanding the Resurrection—why did he have to be so quiet about it?—and we wouldn’t be afraid of death. If he had only worshipped the prince of this world, he could have ruled and ordered the earth, and legislated our lives so that we needn’t make decisions, and he could have taken away all pain (there is no coming to life without pain) and organized our old age so that we could be senior citizens in some happy home, going on happy buses for happy excursions.… Our churches and government agencies think that this kind of manipulation is a good thing, and so they’re trying to do it themselves, since Jesus failed to take the opportunity offered him.
Why, why did he turn it down?
All those innocent little children …
All the hungry …
All the old men and women struggling to live alone and being mugged as they bring in their inadequate groceries (we see it on television every night), little girls raped and murdered, little boys mutilated …
cancer and blindness and senility …
battlefields and slums and insane asylums …
He could have stopped it all if only he’d listened to Satan in the wilderness. What kind of love is he teaching us? And who are we in the Church listening to? The tempter, or the one who put the temptations behind him? Oh, he healed a few blind people and lepers, but certainly not all, and he drove out a few unclean spirits, but not all, and he announced that the poor will be always with us.
No wonder the Church often thinks that he was wrong and turns, with ardent social activism, to the promises of Satan. But why hasn’t the social activism worked? It ought to have worked. But the social activism of the sixties has, after all, produced the seventies, which are galloping to their anguished end. Have we, then, failed—because we’ve fed only a few starving children, rescued only a few war orphans, taken care, like Mother Thersa of Calcutta, of only a few indigent dying people?
And who is this Church I keep referring to? It is not limited to my own denomination, or even the Anglican Communion. When I talk of the Church I mean all of us—Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Lutherans, Baptists, Methodists, all, all of the denominations and all of the sects, all who in any organized way call themselves Christians.
St. Paul said, “I was given a thorn in the flesh, an angel of Satan to beat me and stop me from getting too proud. About this thing, I have pleaded with the Lord three times for it to leave me, but he has said, ‘My grace is enough for you: my power is at its best in weakness.’”
And there, for me, is a clue, another tiny piece in the incomprehensible puzzle. Man’s pride and God’s weakness. And if this is to make any sense to me at all, it must be in terms of my own experience, not what I read about, see on television, but what touches me personally.
Of course, that’s what this book is about. It may be a small and inadequate response of experience, but it’s my own. My profession is writing—stories, novels, fantasy, poetry, thoughts. Writing is not just my job, but a vocation, a total commitment. I started to write when I was five, and as I look back on fifty years of this work, I am forced to accept that my best work has been born from pain; I am forced to see that my own continuing development involves pain. It is pain and weakness and constant failures which keep me from pride and help me to grow. The power of God is to be found in weakness, but it is God’s power.
He has a strange way of loving; it is not man’s way, but I find evidence in my own experience that it is better than man’s way, and that it leads to fuller life, and to extraordinary joy.
Nails were not enough to hold God-and-man nailed to the cross had not love kept him there.
Because I am a writer I live by symbol, and because I was born in the Western World my symbolism is largely Judaeo-Christian, and I find it valid, and the symbol which gives me most strength is that of bread and wine. Through the darkness of my uncomprehending, through my pain and weakness, only thus may I try to become open to God’s love as I move to the altar to receive the body and blood, and accept with friend and neighbor, foe and stranger, the tangible assurance that this love is real.
It is real, but it is not like our love.
I keep thinking about those Holy Innocents, all those little ones who died that Jesus might live.
And one night I woke up thinking about the nobleman from Capernaum whose son Jesus saved from death, and I wondered if perhaps this man’s first-born son might not have been one of the slaughtered little ones, and the memory of that death would stay with him as long as he lived, even if he became a very old man.…
… AND THE OLD MAN BECAME AS A LITTLE CHILD …
He could not sleep.
The tomb was dark, and the stone heavy that sealed it.
He could not sleep for all the innocent blood he had seen shed.
He was an old man. Too old for
tears.
Not yet young enough for sleep. He waited and watched.
Thrice he had spoken to him whose body had been sealed
within the tomb, thrice had the old man spoken,
he who was a disciple, but not one of the twelve,
older, gentler in all ways,
and tired, worn with time and experience and the shedding of blood.
He came from Capernaum
and after that his son
who touched the edge of death
was drawn back from the pit
and made whole,
the old man returned to Jesus and said,
“O thou, who hast today been the consolation of my household,
wast also its desolation.
Because of you my first-born died
in that great shedding of innocent blood.
Nevertheless, I believe
though I know not what
or how or why
for it has not been revealed to me.
I only know that one manchild was slain
and one made to live.”
And a second time he spoke
when the Lord kept the children beside him
and suffered them not to be taken away:
“These are the ones that are left us,
but where, Lord, is the Kingdom of Heaven?
Where, Lord, are the others?
What of them? What of them?”
And he wept.
And a third time he spoke
when the Lord turned to Jerusalem
and laughter turned to steel
and he moved gravely
towards the hour that was prepared
and the bitterness of the cup:
then the old man said,
“All your years you have lived
under the burden of their blood.
Their life was the price of yours.
Have you borne the knowledge and the cost?
The Irrational Season Page 4
